Morphine
by intellectualfangirl
Summary: Sherlock is injured in a mugging, fairly commonplace. What injuries he's left with is not commonplace and leads himself and John to many decisions and a sacrifice. Includes *cutecutecute* Molly and no Johnlock. My feeble attempt :)
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock opened his eyes deliberately as soon as he acknowledged he could. John was there, reading the Classifieds in the newspaper. He had clearly been anxious for a prolonged length of time. A week, no, two. About what, no, who? It was a whom. Ah. _Me._ When Sherlock realized that, he groaned a bit. Just as he expected, John's head snapped up and the eyes of two friends met once more.

John called the nurse in. She talked about how it was such a miracle, and Sherlock again considered the lack of weight in sentiment. John allowed himself a small flash of a smile as Sherlock rattled off the statistics of mugging victim's survival rates in London, which showed Sherlock to not, in fact, be a "miracle."

Sherlock then was quiet, ignoring how awkward he had made the small room, and paid his attention to John's small smile. He had expected it to be more relaxed. _Something is off. I don't dance around subjects; this is John._

"What is wrong, John?" he croaked, angry at how weak his voice was. He shouldn't sound so tired; there was no pain.

No pain. He had been deeply stabbed thrice; where was the… there it is.

Sherlock winced. The nurse apologized, but John, though with obvious sympathy, looked less concerned than before. Why was the nurse apologizing and why was John…?

 _Morphine._

"Sherlock… um… you-"

"I know," Sherlock looked at his friend again. "I've had too much, haven't I."

"Had to, otherwise you'd…" John stopped to take a breath.

"Yes. Well, dialysis, then?" He was aware of what was to be done and wasn't particularly excited, but John was there.

"You," John choked, "will hate that. Going in… every week…" He cleared his throat. Sherlock leaned his head back and observed the ceiling.

"There is no point without the work," he stated. No emotion.

John stood up and put his hand cautiously on Sherlock's shoulder.

"You can't live without dialysis, now. Your kidneys aren't ever-"

"I know!" The words rang. John was hurt by the outburst. _Boring. Knew he'd be._ But only for a moment. His face changed to that of revelation, then hope, then determination. _Ah, a transplant. He thinks I can get a transplant._ "John, it's no use. There's too long a list." But John kept the same stubborness. "Don't be illogical-"

Suddenly Sherlock realized.

"No. No, John. I won't risk it. Mary won't want it either. John." The last word was strained. The pain was worse. _No sleeping yet._ "John, you're the wrong blood type."

"Liar. You don't know my blood type."

"O positive." Sherlock stated, and John noticed that it wasn't due to a long walk in the Mind Palace.

"Yes, and you're A positive. One thing that you have in common with many people of the world, if only that."

"In that case, you're more mediocre by three percent." Sherlock took a shallow, pained breath, which caused John's eyes to tilt slightly more into the worried position. Sherlock thought a moment. "Molly."

"Yes, I asked her. Figured you would need some blood someday." John smiled lightheartedly at the truth in that.

"But not you under surgery! Not an entire organ!"

"I have got two, you know."

"Of course I… know." Why did breathing have to be so difficult? _More important: how do I prevent this?_ "I won't sign the papers." The ache was now a full-out sting, more concentrated. "John…"

"Shh… it's okay." Sherlock tried to stop it but he groaned as it rippled through him.

"Turn it back… up. Please."

"Liver, Sherlock. Just breathe, please. It's alright, you're safe."

"Don't do any… thing… illogical."

John smiled.

"Keep your breathing steady, mate. Sleep."

Sherlock passed out.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm very sorry; I had to decrease his intake of morphine. Though his kidneys cannot now be protected from the medicine's side effects-"

"His liver can be," John recited, "I'm a doctor." That had been his argument throughout the weeks. It sounded quite rude and Sherlock-ish to him now, so he smiled distantly at the poor nurse, She exited as he glanced down at his watch.

"Eleven." Sherlock's voice startled John quite a bit and he briefly just stared. Sherlock's eyes were still closed ('probably in pain,' John thought), but much movement was flooding his face.

"Just can't give yourself a rest, can you?" John said with his eyebrows raised. "What?"

"My next… visitor." _oh, that hurts._ "will come at eleven sharp." He opened his eyes. _Too bright._ "It's tuesday."

"Mycroft only said around lunchtime…" John's voice faded. Sherlock was probably right, though then his big brother was changing routine as he lately had been coming in the later evenings.

It was ten forty-five when the nurse entred again. This time, thought, she did to announce a visitor.

"Is that quite alright, Dr. Watson?" she asked kindly.

"No." Stated Sherlock, raising his bed from the controls on his left. "John, is the clock fifteen minutes off?"

"Um, no, it's- oh." Sherlock glanced at John and a meaningful look passed. Sherlock didn't doubt for a second that John understood. Dr. Watson put on his coat and moved his chair closer to the side of the bed.

"Alright," said John to the nurse. He clenched his teeth, ready for the action his flatmate normally carried with them.

The nurse looked a bit concerned, but opened the door to the waiting visitor.

"Oh, Sherlock, are you feeling badly?"

The detective's head leaned back again; John realized how strenuous it must be for his friend to even stay awake.

"Molly," both Sherlock and John said with relief. Sherlock continued, "Fine." and John let go of his gun.

Poor Molly did not know what to do or say. Somehow, thought, as she rattled a bit, Sherlock felt comforted. John was trying to listen but was worried that the pathologist was annoying Sherlock.

"Um… I guess I… could, should, get going… " Molly wondered if she could put her hand on Sherlock's head or shoulder- something- before she left.

"No," Sherlock groaned, "John needs to go home and see his wife. You'll stay."

John was relieved at the idea but a bit irked at Sherlock for just demanding that of Molly. He gave the Look.

"He means, if there's no trouble with that." he added. Sherlock just grunted.

"No, no trouble," Molly said, as they all knew she would.

"Alright then." And John left the room with a: "Behave, Sherlock."

The nurse followed John out; Molly turned and sat on the chair that had occupied the doctor.

"You're not fine, are you." It wasn't a question.

"Hm."

"I'm sorry. I wish it weren't you…" She paused and turned cautiously to Sherlock more. The pain was worse. "But I'm sure you'be found that it connects somehow, to something, and that you're thinking a great deal, hm? Like always." _It's too much. I need the morphine, I need it. Think of something else. Think!_ But he couldn't. It was the worst pain he had ever flet. Oh, how he hated, hated feeling.

Molly just watched for an hour or so, opened the curtain, sat back down. Sherlock was rather still, but eventually a tear rolled down his cheek.

 _Why did I let_ that _happen?_

"Sherlock," Molly whispered. It was not with pity or even concern. _Empathy, maybe. I thought I hated empathy. Does no one any good, does it?_ But for a moment, he could think, if only on that. "I… I'm sorry," she said, and a tear escaped her eye. _Definetly empathy. It's not her fault._ Another tear, his. It hurt to expand his chest at all. _Vunerable,_ he thought with disgust. "It's okay," she said, as if in answer, "it'll be okay."

Then she couldn't help it. She reached and gently held his hand. He thought about it for just a moment, then decided he didn't mind. _Maybe I… no._ But he did like it. One more of his tear and a laboured sigh.

"It's okay." There was one knock on the door.

"Mycroft's here," Sherlock muttered. Molly wiped the tears off of Sherlock's face carefully. Sherlock heightened his bed and opened his eyes. He kept her hand in his as the door opened.


End file.
